The Daughter of a Knight of Hell
by chillidragons
Summary: Meet Ripley Mitchell. Hunter extraordinaire. Beach lover. Excellent snooker player. Oh, and daughter of Dean Winchester and Abaddon, Knight of Hell. (Starts after 9x11/9x12) before Dean kills Abaddon and after Sam finds out about the Mark of Cain. Ripley was born with the Mark on her soul, so when she dies...well, what do you call a hunter with black eyes?
1. The Daughter

The surge of power I felt burnt hot through my veins. I couldn't see my way past the creeping urge to shed blood, to rip every living thing apart. The knife felt wrong in my hand, cold and stale.

The demon laughed as I hacked into his flesh, black eyes flashing with pain. I remember laughing and smiling, the cruel twist of muscles a feral grimace on my lips. His laughs turned into screams as I gauged, ripped, mangled his meat suit until he was unrecognizable.

"What have you done now darling?" The smooth British accent accompanying the low gravelly voice had me snarling as I whirled. _Crowley_. I knew the king of Hell by scent-a mixture of scotch, blood, fear and anger all rolled into one. I whirled to turn on him but he flicked his fingers and I went flying—literally—back-first into the nearest wall, the knife skittering into a corner far from my reach. I growled at him, gnashing my teeth. He raised his voice, as if to be heard by someone on the other side of a wall. "Come in, boys."

The door to my left opened and two men walked in. I've met hunters before—all had tried to kill me—but these two were different. They didn't look straight to me, but they assessed Crowley with wary, almost hostile glances. One was massive-six-four and broad shouldered, strong and sturdily built with long brunette hair and steady hazel eyes. He gripped a silver knife in his right hand. The man stalking in behind him could only have been his older brother. Although standing at six-one with more muscle, he was definitely worse for wear. His dark blonde hair was more rumpled, rough stubble along his strong jaw. His eyes, however bright and candy-apple green were haunted and feral and had a very similar gleam to the ones I saw in the mirror. I knew that look. His hands held no weapons, but his fingers I knew itched to hold the hilt of a knife, the butt of a gun—something that could kill.

Crowley stared down at the disfigured demon writhing at his feet. "She did that?" The taller one asked.

"Squirrel shut your moose up." The king of Hell snapped.

The older brother clenched his fingers into fists. He launched his whole weight at Crowley, form tackling him to the ground. The younger brother sprang into action immediately, prying his brother from the demon who had, upon being dropped, let his hold over me go. "Dean! Hey, hey, buddy—calm down!" While Dean's younger brother held him back I found my short nails raking the wooden floorboards. My muscles coiled and I leapt just as my eyes found my knife.

Something silver clattered at the edge of my vision, and I paused, frozen to see the knife the tall man had been holding, now abandoned on the floor. I scooped it up and stepped over to the barely conscious demon, which whimpered for mercy as I drove the blade into its chest over and over, orange light flickering through its skin. When I found the heart and plunged the knife in it screamed louder than I'd ever been able to make a demon scream—the orange light flickered a few more times before the wriggling body lay completely still.

The rush of power overshadowed everything—my remorse for killing an innocent human inside the demon, my caring about the human in the first place—and replaced all that with pleasure. I _enjoyed_ killing. I _needed_ to.

I remember Dean telling his brother he was fine. I remember Crowley's screams and shouts echoing in one ear and out the other. The brother trying to calm the king of Hell. Dean crouching in front of me, prying the knife from my rigid fingers and asking me if I could hear him.

His eyes were devoid of power and the predatory fire I could recognize in my own eyes. There was only concern. He pushed my hair back from my face with a tender hand, his grip on my shoulder firm as he squeezed the muscles. He could see my eyes assessing him, the tiny movements quick and sharp, reading his body language and expression. _He's a friend, an ally_. He squeezed my shoulder slightly before standing and walking to his brother—the giant of a man—who was now eyeing me with suspicion. Every muscle began to tense as Dean handed the knife over, his brother wiping the demon's blood on his sleeve but not taking his eyes from me.

My ears tuned into the conversation. "What were you doing here with her Crowley?" Dean was asking. "And what the hell have you done to her?"

"Nothing!" He hissed, glaring at the brother when he advanced on Crowley. "Control Samantha, squirrel."

"Chill out, Sam. And you, Crowley, are going to tell me what exactly I'm seeing in this girl's eyes or I swear to god—"

The king of Hell smirked at Dean's words. I could tell he wasn't threatened by them in the slightest. "What, buttercup? What will you do to me?"

Dean grabbed the lapels of Crowley's coat and yanked him to his feet, holding their faces mere inches apart so Crowley was forced to look into Dean's eyes, so he could see just how serious the hunter was.

"I swear to god First Blade or not I will tie you down and skin you alive." His voice was low, a cold, menacing growl, his fingers white-knuckled as he gripped the demon's coat. The brother—Sam—placed a large hand on his brother's shoulder and squeezed the muscles, the other hand attempted to pry the coat free.

"Dean, let him go."

But Dean's fingers were iron, clamped over the material. Tension began to wind up his arms, muscles clenching, and shoulders curling as the muscles in his back became taut. A vein in his neck pulsed and his whole body began to heave in time with his breaths. Something was happening to Dean, but I couldn't concentrate.

I tuned out of the present. I couldn't seem to move my legs, my body felt as if it were slowly freezing up from the inside out. I let out a gasp of panic I didn't realize was being held in by my ever-tightening throat muscles. My stomach roiled and fought to regurgitate that one meal I had four days ago. I tried to use the wall to support my weight in a feeble attempt to stand but my muscles wouldn't work and I fell heavily to the floor. All I knew was my body wasn't working.

I had no idea what would become of Crowley or what Dean was going to do to the king of Hell, I didn't know what Sam was going to do or how Dean would react, whether they'd leave me here to rot—which would be the smart thing to do—or if they were going to help me, all I remember next was my eyes refused to stay open and I slipped into unconsciousness, welcoming the black.


	2. The Bunker

Dean threw Crowley to the floor and jerked to release his brother's grip. "I'm fine." He muttered, looking towards the girl on the floor where they'd left her. He crouched beside her and took her chin in his hands gently, tilting her head upwards towards him. She was unconscious, her breaths coming in very shallow, short gasps as if she'd been running a marathon. Ignoring Crowley's jab at him being a knight in shining armour, Dean lifted the girl into his arms and made his way out of the abandoned mansion they'd tracked the demon to.

He was surprised at how light she was, and despite the muscle definition on her arms and shoulders she had a very lithe, bird-like frame that he knew made her incredibly agile.

Sam appeared at his side as Dean got to the foyer, opening the back door of the Impala and helping his brother ease the girl onto the black leather. "I'll drive," Sam said, and Dean knew it wasn't a question. "You look...tired...you should get some sleep. It's five hours back to the Bunker."

Dean didn't protest as he slid into the passenger seat and rested his head on the window, wishing for but not getting any sleep. What Sammy didn't know and wasn't going to find out for as long as Dean could help it was that the Mark wouldn't let him sleep. He hadn't slept properly eighteen days en counting, unless he counted last week when he'd drank until he passed out but awoke three hours later to an annoyed Crowley calling to ask if they'd found Abaddon yet.

They arrived at the Bunker just as the sun was peeking over the treetops, Sam holding the door open for Dean and his load. He left his brother to bury himself in research or whatever it was he did—Dean meanwhile kicked open the door to the only other bedroom in the same hall as his and put the girl gently onto the bed.

Her flash of red hair was a mess—he immediately thought of Charlie and smiled—but this girl's was much shorter, cut to just above her collarbone. It was curling slightly at the ends, forming ringlets that shone slightly bronze—her hair wasn't actually completely red, he found, unable to take his eyes away—there were hints of a darker colour similar to his own. Her delicate features were slackened by a lack of consciousness, but she was very beautiful, angular cheekbones, slightly pointed ears and straight nose tickling something at the back of his memory. Her long reddish-bronze eyelashes were long, tickling her cheeks, the dark pink splash of her lips seemed very bright against her lily-white skin. There was blood—a few not-so-small flecks of it—on her right cheek and much more on her neck. It stained the front of her white shirt and was smeared across her arms and black jeans. He couldn't help but notice the curves of her body in all the right places, and he had to pinch himself to force movement into his limbs.

He turned off the light but left the door slightly ajar, doing the same in his own room after kicking off his boots and throwing his jacket to one side. He once again begged for sleep but it wouldn't come. His mind wandered to the look in the girl's eyes as she hacked into the demon and the poor bastard he'd been possessing. There had been no humanity in them, the green-grey steel cold and as unforgiving as Abaddon's own eyes. He shook the image of her twisted face from his mind and looked around his room, eyes not settling on anything in particular. The green light of the digital clock beside his bed showed it was nearly six. _There's probably no point trying to sleep anyway._ He didn't think he'd convinced himself that he wasn't tired but he rose and headed for the kitchen, hoping he hadn't already drunk the rest of the booze.


	3. The Morning After

Something soft lay beneath me. Eyes still firmly shut my fingers spread to find cotton sheets. Pain stabbed through a nerve in my neck and several muscles in my arms and legs began to ache as I sat up. Something in my back clicked. I blinked sleep from my eyes as the dark room around me came into focus. Empty shelves to my right, an ajar door just beyond them, through which was seeping light and muffled sounds. To my left was an empty space, the far wall obstructed by a cabinet with an older looking TV and a wardrobe, its heavy doors closed.

My legs shook but held my weight, so I gingerly stepped forwards and made my way towards the door. The muffled sounds grew slightly louder—notes of heavy bass and the smash of drums accompanied by the wail of an electric guitar—and I headed towards the music, clearly coming from a door a few yards down the hall as it stood a few inches ajar. Light thumps could be heard along with the clunk of something glass meeting wood.

I edged along the hall, stone floor cold under my bare feet, and peeked through the space between the door and its frame. The song changed with a clash of cymbals into _Don't Fear The Reaper_ as I took in the room. High ceiling, classy oak tables and chairs down the far end of the room where the stereo was situated. Three snooker tables all with red tops and ebony frames and leather pockets divided the room, their cues in a holder on the far wall with stubs of chalk. Two green and red dart boards were lined up next to it, one so old a great crack in the cork ran diagonally through its centre and the wire was riddled with rust and bent in several places, the other was newer and being used. On the chalkboard next to it in boyish handwriting were the words _CROWLEY CAN KISS MY ASS_ and _I'M GONNA STAB ABADDON IN THE FACE_ along with a score tallied fifteen. Dean had his back to the door and was pulling five black and silver darts from the board. He was in a pair of faded jeans and a navy blue shirt with its sleeves pushed up to the elbows—the shirt hugged his torso but fell away from his stomach a bit, the muscles in his shoulders well-defined by it. A strange burn-like mark was revealed on his right forearm, the reddish pink skin slightly swollen. His hair was unkempt and slightly damp, there was a slight slouch to his shoulders that could have only been from fatigue.

As he turned I thought he would see me, but he wasn't interested in his surroundings. Before he threw the darts again he picked up a glass tumbler from the bar to the right of him and downed the amber liquid. He coughed once as the alcohol surely burnt his throat and he slammed the glass back onto the bar. The darts thudded into the board as he threw them as hard as he could.

I nudged the door open, surprised it didn't squeak as he tallied a few more onto his score, yanked the darts out and walked back to position, not even stopping when he saw me. He kept repeating his actions until the song ended, and in the lull I finally saw the purple bags under his eyes.

"What?" The word was curt and sharp.

"N-n-n-nothing." My mumble was lost in the loud opening guitar riff of the next song. He ignored me and I him as I ambled through the room, running my fingers over tables and examining chips in the polished wood. We must have spent almost twenty minutes this way, because six songs later Sam walked into the room and, glaring at his brother with what could only have been frustration in his eye, turned the music off completely.

"I've been calling out to you for fifteen minutes!"

"Now you've got my attention." Dean had poured himself six more drinks since I'd entered and was now onto his seventh.

Sam let out a strangled sigh and ran a hand through his long brunette hair. "Have you been drinking _all_ day?" Dean grunted. "Wait, while I've been up there _alone_ trying to figure out a way to track Abaddon you've been sculling whiskey? Seriously, Dean? I thought we were going to kill her and then get rid of Crowley—or are you too buddy-buddy with him now? Don't want to gank the king of Hell anymore—" I hadn't noticed the tang of alcohol in the air before, but now it hit me and I felt slightly dizzy. I grabbed the nearest chair for support. "—What, are you slacking off now and being selfish? You even woke her up!"

"N-no, he didn't. I-I could barely hear the m-music from my room." Sam gave me a very skeptical look; hazel eyes focusing on my pale hand gripping the chair back supporting me rather tightly. "D-d-do you guys have anyth-thing to eat? I-I'm starved." The scepticism turned into a small but friendly smile and Sam gestured for me to follow him out of the room, which I did.

"Sorry about that." Sam's voice lowered to a normal volume, losing its judgmental tone.

"I-it's okay."

I trailed him down a few twisting hallways until we reached a small kitchen. Cabinets, a fridge and bench tops lined the far and left walls, a metal table with individual stools that were welded to the table sat along the right wall. Sam sat me at the table and I watched quietly as he whipped up a cold-chicken and salad sandwich with mayo. He set it in front of me with a glass of water before sitting on the stool opposite, hands clasped loosely and resting on the tabletop.

I ate the sandwich in record time, my stomach never feeling emptier. I sipped at the water as Sam began with the questions I'd been waiting to be voiced. "What happened back there with Crowley? Why were you there in the first place?"

I merely shrugged. I couldn't answer even if I wanted to. I had no inkling in the slightest how I'd ended up there or what caused me to attack that demon. It had appeared to me that Crowley had lead the boys to the mansion, but from what Sam told me they and the king of Hell weren't on the best of terms as he wanted Dean to kill Abaddon—the last Knight of Hell created by the one and only Cain—before she took over Hell. From what Sam told me, this demon was the worst of all demons—even more so than Crowley—which was a feat unto itself. She survived decapitation, dismemberment and her meat suit being burnt to a crisp by Holy oil.

"S-s-she sounds t-t-t-terrifying." I mumbled, frustration building up in the form of a burning heat in the pit of my stomach. Why could I not voice my thoughts?

"I have one more question, and then I won't press you for anything more until you're ready."

"O-okay."

He smiled that small friendly smile at me again. "What's with the stutter?"


	4. It's Too Early For This Part 1

For the next few days Sam got me to open up a little bit to him; he would talk to me and I would mumble and stumble my way through my replies until I could talk to him fairly fluently. Whenever I stumbled across Dean, however, my throat would squeeze itself shut and breathing was a fantasy. Something about him made me uneasy—for the lack of a better word.

My alarm blared in my ear, waking me from a disturbing dream already fading. Distant voices drew me to the main living area of the bunker, but the brothers weren't there. My ears strained to hear them, and when I realized it wasn't Dean or Sam talking a knot of dread cut off my stomach from my throat.

I had no inkling of how much time passed as I stood there, head cocked to one side, eyes seeing nothing, muscles slowly relaxing as my ears reached.

It must have been for a while, because when a strong, clear voice suddenly cleared his throat and asked me what I was doing I jumped from my skin, my pulse lurching wildly.

Opening my eyes I found Dean, duffel in hand, rumpled and eyeing me cautiously. He stood at the bottom of the stairs; water weighing down his clothes and slowly dripping from his hair. "Well?" He asked. I felt my throat close up and I shook my head, tucking my arms into my sides and dropping my gaze.

He dumped his bag next to the doorway as he stepped up to me, the thud loud in the silence. "Okay, what's your deal? You'll talk to Sam but not me?"

"I…I-I-I-I—"

"What? Huh? You what? Just spit it out."

I felt something hot boiling in the pit of my stomach, dissolving the knots of dread and nerves residing there. It took control of my hands, clenching them into fists by my sides, my jaw tightened and I began to feel the rage surface. Try as I might to push it down and keep in control, it was stronger. Whatever it was.

Dean's gaze was piercing and hard, challenging. Something in my mind found it to be threatening. I slowly uncurled my fingers, crouched, back arched and teeth bared. He frowned slightly and slipped a knife into his hands.

"Bring it on." I growled, my voice smooth and clear. The surprise in his eyes registered in my brain but I discarded it. His face was set, green gaze watching my every move, seeing every muscle tense and relax. He thought I was going to launch myself at him to take him down, but I stayed perfectly still, waiting for him to move first.


	5. It's Too Early For This Part 2

Dean saw the effects of his taunts and anger, it pushed her to breaking point. He slipped his knife into his hand, waiting for her to strike.

She didn't.

In the back of his mind he knew what would happen once Sam came in, the chastising and disapproval, but he couldn't care about that right now. The Mark was burning on his arm, blood stinging in his veins, urging him to leap forwards and make the first move.

The standoff grew more and more tense, with each passing moment it became more appealing to him to attack. He watched her carefully, taking note of the way her muscles tensed and relaxed and the slight tick in her jaw as she fought for control.

The outside door to the Bunker opened and closed with a loud booming echo, and Sammy's footfalls could be heard coming down the steps. In a few seconds his brother would come down to the balcony and see them below, assuming the worst...

In a split second, just before Sam was in sight, Dean tucked his knife away, holding his hands up in a peaceful gesture. He saw her eyes register the non-verbal communication and she relaxed, pulling out a chair and sitting on it. She appeared calm, but he could see her fingers clasped in her lap, taught as she had just been.

Sam gave a loud sigh as he came down the last of the stairs. "It's good to be back," he said, giving Dean a heavy hit on his shoulder as he walked past. "Miss us?"


	6. Caught With The Wrong Crowd

I spent the next few days avoiding Sam's gaze. I couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes, not after what had almost happened with Dean. Instead I trailed the older brother—much to his annoyance, I knew—to try and figure out what it was about him that my crazed self had seen as an ally. Whenever he asked me why I was following him I would stumble and stutter my way through half of an answer or my throat would shut itself off completely, so he was often left without a reply. This, of course, made Dean frown in confusion and grumble to himself and spend a lot of time in his room as he tried to avoid me. Or he would go out and find a bar, destroying whatever was left of his liver, apparently. I could tell by the way he stumbled down the hall, loudly and muttering until he slammed his door shut.

After about a week and a half of wandering around the bunker after Dean, not making eye contact with Sam and trying to unravel the Crowley situation, but getting nowhere, I'd finally had enough. I needed to get out, look at the sky, breathe in some disgusting stink of pollution or I'd go crazy. I felt as if I would explode if I didn't get out and just wander through a normal street or eat an ice-cream. I pitched the idea of taking a little excursion to Sam, but he immediately became tight lipped and said "I'll talk to Dean, we'll probably go soon" but gave me no other information.

I made up an excuse to stretch my legs a few hours later, not quite sure where Dean was but willing to risk getting caught. Since we'd been in Sam's room, which was not far from the hall his brother and I shared, I tip-toed to my room and grabbed my jacket and shoes before making my way to the main library. I could hear quiet breaths echoing from somewhere close by, but I couldn't pinpoint them so I edged forwards carefully. As I came up the steps I saw Dean's slumped figure by the farthest table, head lolling to the side, right arm reaching across the tabletop to an empty beer bottle that had fallen over. His back was to me and yet I knew he was asleep, his bare feet were propped up on another chair, his boots discarded on the floor, a tattered and very full journal open beside the bottle. I could see strange symbols and weird drawings on the pages as I crept past, but that didn't interest me. All I wanted was to get outside.

I clambered up the metal staircase as quietly as I could, slipping my shoes on once I got to the next set of steps, which were concrete. I knew the door outside was this way, and it was a quick climb to its dark, rough metal face. I gave the handle a gentle pull and opened the door just enough so I could squeeze out, wincing when its hinges whined as I closed it. The afternoon sun was hidden somewhere behind the abandoned factory above the bunker, the air chilly but not too cold. I slipped my jacket on, following the dirt drive down the hillside to the main road. I had no idea where I was, I knew the mansion I had been in with Crowley was somewhere in Kansas, but otherwise I was completely lost. I'd grown up in Australia and Japan, I'd stayed in south-east Asia for a year and I'd travelled to Europe, but I'd only ever come over to America a couple of times, so I didn't really know the country or the people—or the monsters, for that matter.

When I reached the main road I turned right and began walking, hoping it was the way to civilisation, because the factory (and therefore the bunker) was surrounded by forest. As it turned out, the outskirts of a small town soon came into view, with a bar, a couple of shops and small businesses. I wandered down the main street, hands jammed in my pockets and collar turned up against the feral wind that had begun to howl. I felt around my jeans and inner jacket pockets, discovering I had not a lot of money, but enough for a drink or two.

The bar was quiet, an old jukebox in the corner lazily spitting out Queen, the patrons few and all men. The bartender asked me for I.D., suspicion crinkling his eyes when he saw my birth year, yet finding no fault in the identification itself. "Pick your poison." He grumbled.

I sat at the bar, watching with a raised eyebrow when he got a pint glass for the beer I'd ordered. He placed the bottle beside the glass, leaning back and watching me expectantly, as if waiting for the moment when I poured the beer into it. I frowned at him, giving him a look that said "really?" and took a large swig from the bottle. Disappointed I didn't take the 'girly' option, he put the glass away and wandered off. Although I don't know what's girly about drinking from a glass…American logic, I guess?

"You're looking well, love."

Jumping out of my skin was my first reaction to the demon materialising beside me, and when I saw it was none other than the king of Hell my fingers grew tight holding onto the edge of the bar. "Crowley." I growled.

"Still feeling psychotic, or are you past that now?"

I could feel my anger surfacing, giving me control. I glanced over to the bartender, who was no longer interested in me but talking to someone I assumed to be a regular in a town of this size. "How did you find me?"

He ignored me, waving the bartender over and ordering a scotch. I had to bite the inside of my cheek as he blatantly flirted with the man, who almost spat in Crowley's drink before walking back down the other end of the bar. "Why the small town of Lebanon, if I may ask, darling?"

"You may not," I hissed. "Until you answer _my_ questions." I watched him sip at his scotch, and as I took in his calm demeanour and laid back appearance I grew infuriated. I felt something begin to twist in the pit of my stomach, and I itched to hold something sharp so I could drive it into his neck repeatedly, as it would most likely make me feel better. The angrier I felt, the more I seemed to think my vision was twisting, and underneath his skin something dark lingered, like a shadow on his bones, but deeper than that. As I stared it became clearer, and I wished I could stop looking but tearing my eyes away was impossible.

It was like something rotten was living under Crowley's skin, making his skin bubble and ooze, contorting his face. His mouth gaped open to reveal black and yellow teeth, ghoul-like skin of his cheeks grey and ripped, bleeding thick black blood and through the holes his tongue lay dead and shrivelled in his mouth. As I watched his hair fell out, the remaining strands growing longer and oily, his eyes melted, leaving gaping black holes in his head, wisps of demonic smoke escaping from the sockets. The grey skin of his forehead was peeling off in places, skull peeking through underneath.

It came to me then, staring at the disgusting horror in front of me, that this was Crowley's true face beneath the smooth talking charming-faced Brit.

"W-what ha-happened at the m-mansion?" I asked, finally tearing my eyes away. That was…disturbing…

I glanced at him, and his smile told me he knew what I'd seen. "Do you know who your mother is, love?" I was slightly taken aback by the random question.

"She was a h-h-hunter. Her name w-was A-a-a-m-manda."

"And your father?"

The anger began to dissipate at the odd questions. And so did my enhanced vision, leaving me with only Crowley's meat suit, which suited me perfectly. "M-m-my f-ath-er?" I frowned, sadness slowly welling up from my stomach and sitting heavily in my chest. I could feel the numbness spreading like a chill through me as I failed not to think of my childhood. "M-my f-father a-a-aband-d-donned me and-d m-my m-mother wh-when I was y-y-young."

"Ah," Crowley said, a small knowing smile playing on his lips. I had a feeling I wasn't going to like what he was about to tell me. "So you _don't_ know, then. I didn't think she'd tell you."

"T-tell me w-w-what?" He smiled at my question taking his time to sip at his whiskey, my feeling of apprehension growing stronger and stronger, I felt it drown out my wailing memories of a painfully lonely childhood and it filled me until it seemed I was about to burst. "W-what did sh-she not tell m-me, Crowley?"

When he didn't answer it clicked. He wasn't going to tell me anything—that would put him at a disadvantage—because I wasn't the only one looking for answers. Crowley wanted something out of this meeting, and he would weasel it out of me however he could. My first thoughts were of the Winchesters and the bunker, but Sam had told me about his little stay as their prisoner after the angels fell. (Man! I knew about monsters, gods and demons already, but angels was a hard one to wrap my head around!)

So what could Crowley possibly want?

Minutes passed this way, sitting beside the king of Hell in silence, trying to figure out how he benefitted from this encounter while watching the condensation drip slowly down the side of my beer until I heard the rumble of an engine.

It was deep, the way I'd imagine a tiger purring like a house cat. A door creaked open and was slammed shut, and I could have sworn I recognised the sound. The bar door opened with a quiet creak, and my stomach dropped through the floor and landed somewhere near Hell's gates.

It occurred to me later that going to the nearest bar was not a very smart move because of course it would be Dean's watering hole.

He didn't see us, he just shuffled past and sat down a few stools away from me on my right, still bleary eyed and rumpled from his nap in the library, it seemed. As he ordered his drink I began to slowly angle myself away from him, not quite sure what his reaction would be once he discovered I'd snuck out. He paid me no attention, instead looking down and rubbing the spot on his right forearm where that odd burn-like mark was. Crowley stood, obviously tense and slightly nervous due to his jerky actions. He began to walk over to Dean, hissing in my ear "I'll distract him and you run for it. It'll do you no good to be seen with me—you'll lose moose and squirrel's trust in a flash" before sitting on Dean's right, forcing him to look away from me and the door. As the two began talking, I thought about bolting, but something kept me glued to my stool.

Had Dean brought his brother along? They must have figured out I'd run off, but had they simply made a lucky guess as to which way I'd gone? Panic started to burn in my veins, and it took everything I had to sit perfectly still.

I took a nervous swig, finishing off my beer. I needed to escape out back, which meant getting around Dean. Lucky for me, then, that he suddenly pushed past Crowley and made for the men's room without so much as a backwards glance. I slapped a bill on the bar next to my empty bottle and almost ran to the back of the bar to the door leading to the restrooms. I made it seem like I was about to puke so nobody bothered asking what was wrong, and made a beeline for the exit.

The rusty metal door groaned horribly as I pushed it open, and I found myself in a stinky little alley behind the bar, two Dumpsters—one half full and the other completely empty—emitting foul stenches, grimy concrete beneath my feet and high brick walls blocking out the breeze, allowing the smell of decay to fester in the cold, stagnant air. I came to an abrupt halt when my eyes fell on the alley's exit.

Dean was waiting for me.

"S-shit."


	7. How To Dig Your Grave: Step One, Run

It seemed like time just stopped. Dean stared at me, anger slowly building in his eyes, making his jaw clench. He had his hands clasped in front of him, gun tight in his grip. It looked like he'd punched something, because a small trickle of blood was dripping from his fingers.

For some reason I knew—the feeling had settled into my gut as soon as I had stepped into the bar—that today was going to be a bad one. Something was going to go wrong, and from the looks of it several things already had.

"Want to tell me why you were in there with Crowley?" Dean's voice was deep with anger, strained. I could tell I was in it deep, my heart began to thunder in my chest not with adrenaline, but out of fear. Something in me told me I should be running, running hard and fast and very far away from Dean within the next few seconds. For once I decided to listen to that something. I knew I couldn't run past him and out into the street, and I felt a surge of relief that I had kept hold of the door so it was open.

I didn't dare move just yet. "I-I…h-he f-f-fou-nd me. W-w-wants s-s-s-someth-thing fr-rom m-me. I-I-I d-don't kn-ow w-what, y-y-your e-entrance s-s-t-topped me fr-rom find-ding out."

He frowned, obviously deep in thought. I took this opportunity to edge backwards while he was looking away, and once I was almost halfway through the door I grabbed the inside handle and pulled it shut quickly. Dean's head snapped up in response to the groaning of the old hinges, and my last sight of him was leaping forwards to grab hold of the handle. I looked around the tiny hallway to try and find something to jam the door with, but there was nothing. We wrestled for the door, and I braced my feet either side of the frame, pulling with all I had to close it, flicking the lock on the handle. It was extremely old, and as Dean began to pound on the metal the entire thing groaned. I backed away, not wanting to go out into the bar. There were three doors in the hall, two being the bathrooms, but the third was opposite the back door, with a grimy sign that read 'office—no access'. I tried the handle, surprised to find it unlocked.

The thuds and booms of Dean throwing himself against the old door became muted once I had closed and locked the door to the office, but I still jumped when the crash of the metal finally giving under his assault sounded behind me. There was a blacked out window, which was stuck when I tried to open it, and that appeared to be the only other way out. I knew it was a matter of time before Dean figured out where I'd gone, but I didn't want too much noise, so breaking the window was out of the question.

I tried desperately to lift the window, making sure the lock wasn't a problem and using what was left of my energy to yank the glass upwards. It lifted about a foot, and slipping through was a piece of cake. I shoved it back down, the slam of it hitting its frame louder than I'd expected but by the time anyone came to investigate I would be long gone.

I dashed to the main street, covering my face with the hood of my jacket, hands jammed into my pockets hopefully looking like a delinquent teen. I stopped in front of a clothes store a couple of shops down the road, taking the opportunity to glance back to the bar. A sleek black muscle car was parked out front, a figure slumped in the back seat and another sitting on the hood of the car, leaning back against the windshield. From where I stood I could tell that was Sam, his long brunette hair messy from his fingers constantly running through it. It appeared he was worried about something. I tried to make out the figure in the backseat, and as I looked at them they turned their head to look at me, and I started when I recognised Crowley. How had they caught him?

As soon as I saw the door to the bar open I turned away, strolling down the street the opposite way I had come, finding a sign for a service station a couple of 'miles' up the road, since the town's—Lebanon, hadn't Crowley said?—was out of service. I heard the rumble of the Winchester's car as it cruised down the street, and I fought to keep my nerves in check, forcing myself to walk naturally.

Why was I running from them? Hadn't they saved me from Crowley? I had no idea why, but I feared Dean's wrath. Hopefully at the service station I would be able to catch a ride with a trucker or some friendly road-trippers to a major city—somewhere with an airport would be nice. Home sounded like a really good idea right about now.

The service station was full of trucks, a few SUV's and a Winnebago on the far side. I tried to talk to a couple of the SUV owners, but they all made up excuses like they lived locally or were just assholes. I avoided the truck drivers—they would be my last resorts—I'd seen my share of horror movies. A diner was attached to the service station, and I went inside, hoping for a stroke of luck. A bell tinkled above me, the warm air inviting compared to outside. One of the waitresses was about to come up to me when a male voice called out.

"Ah, Ripley. Glad you made it."

I didn't recognise the man who had spoken. He was a weasel of a human being, so thin I could see his collar bones beneath his skin thanks to a very loose t-shirt, lanky, greasy hair, yellowing teeth and a crooked nose. His skinny fingers were clasped on the tabletop in front of him.

Heart thundering in my throat I sat down opposite him, knowing full well what he was. For some reason I was nervous—like I knew he was about to tell me something terrible.

"It's such a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Wh-who are y-y-y-ou?"

"Call me Weasel." He extended a wiry hand, but when I didn't move to take it, it dropped almost forlornly onto the table. "I assume you know what I am by your reaction, then. I work for someone currently rivalling that buffoon Crowley for Hell's throne—"

"Abaddon."

His smile was thin and cruel. "Yes. She is very interested in your…anger management issues."

That sent a shiver down my spine. Why would a Knight of Hell care about me? So I couldn't control my temper—big deal—did she know about _Dean's_ problems too? Did she want a death match between the two of us? Why did supernatural beings always have to interfere with my life?

I found that the anger crept up on me this time, and it felt normal to hiss in a low voice at the demon "Abaddon can shove it up her ass. 'Interested' in my anger? Sure she is. And I'm Hello Kitty." This made him laugh, but it did nothing to dissuade this beast roiling in the pit of my stomach. My breaths began to grow loud and heavy, adrenalin making my hands shake. In the seconds before I felt myself snap, I only had one thought.

Everyone in this diner is going to die.


	8. How To Dig Your Grave: Step Two, Um

When they found me I didn't want to be human anymore.

I had been standing in the woods, covered in death, muttering "make it stop, make the screams stop" over and over. Apparently they'd followed my muttering but had mistaken me for a victim, so stained was I. They hadn't found any injuries, apart from a broken finger and raw knuckles. When I didn't answer their questions they chalked it up to shock—that I'd made myself forget everything.

I remembered every moment.

A child, travelling with his parents, no more than eleven yet I could still feel his scalp in my hand and his blood dribbling down my chin, tickling the skin of my neck. His mother's cries as I wrapped my fingers around her windpipe and squeezed would haunt me once my rampage ended. I'd sliced his father's throat. The waitress who had been about to greet me writhing beneath me as I raked my fingernails through her skin, her blood coating my hands and slicking the floor, the cook screaming with the sheer terror of pure pain as I drove a butter knife into his stomach, gutting him slowly, laughing as he thrashed. His last gurgled breaths made him cough blood and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. When people had begun to flee I'd run out into the carpark and smashed a guy's head into his car window as he tried to unlock the driver side door in an attempt to get away, his body falling heavily on the gravel, landing with a satisfying crunch. I'd found a rusty metal pole lying near the car, bashed a man's brains in with it, driving the end into another patron's throat until I saw a trucker about to escape and threw it, javelin style, into the cab of a truck, impaling him and causing him to crash. I'd found a gun at my disposal, and shot anyone trying to run. A guy trying to be a hero charged me, but I took him down with two swift moves, a knuckle in the right pressure point and a swift kick between his legs. He begged for mercy as I raised the gun, and I smiled, baring my teeth and pulling the trigger. There had been an elderly man, his walker the only thing holding him up, and I emptied the rest of the clip into his back. I gouged a woman's eyes out with a fork, and chased down a kitchen hand who had run into the woods trying to escape. I beat him to death with my bare hands, breaking my finger when he jerked his head to one side and my fist connected with a rock instead. I picked up the rock and brought it down on his head, blood and brain splattering wildly all over me.

I'd noticed his phone in the dirt, a call with 911 still in progress. Stumbling to my feet, I began to walk until my rage evaporated, leaving me stranded in the middle of the woods, covered in…I didn't want to think about it.

So the police ushered me away, attempting to wipe my face down, clean my hands, bother me with questions. I couldn't let myself talk, I couldn't allow myself to think. I didn't deserve to interact with another human being unless he was possessed by Lucifer. Then I would walk into hell without hesitation and allow myself to be tortured for the rest of time as penance for what I had knowingly done. But that wasn't the only reason.

I'd _enjoyed_ it.

Every second, ever drop of blood, every kill. I'd loved the feel of blood against my skin, of the power I felt knowing I held someone's life in my hands and that I could crush it as simply as…that. I knew I had laughed, and it terrified me to realise I'd felt happiness—pure joy—as I'd massacred more than a dozen innocent people.

The police officer trying to talk to me lead me to the patrol car and I willingly sat inside. For all they knew I was a victim who'd managed to escape. I wasn't inclined to tell them otherwise.

They took me back into town to the station, sitting me down in an interrogation room with two detectives who spoke to me as if I were a child. I still didn't speak a word. Hours passed, and no one could glean a single fact from me. I couldn't move, and didn't dare look at anyone. A deputy came into the room at one point, sitting down opposite me and trying to make eye contact, stretching his hand across the table as if to console me, but thinking better of it when I flinched. I would never touch another human being again. He spoke in a soft voice.

"The F.B.I. are here to question you, ma'am. We're letting them in here in a couple of minutes. If you'd prefer someone else to be in here with you, just let us know, okay?" He waited for a few seconds, and got up when I remained silent, hugging myself, my arms locked like steel.

After a few minutes the door opened again and two men walked in. "Shit." I frowned, looking up to find Dean standing in the doorway, hand still grasping the handle, the other in his pocket. Sam was behind him, looking curiously over his brother's shoulder. They both wore tailored suits, Dean's a dark grey and Sam's a navy blue. They looked sharp, and utterly shocked when it registered that I was the anonymous witness to the gas station massacre. I didn't blame Dean for swearing.

They closed the door quickly behind them, Dean sitting in the chair opposite me. Sam pulled the extra chair over from the corner, and both stared at me. I knew I still had blood on my clothes, and most likely on my face, my hair, I'd seen in the reflection of the mirrored glass, was wild and stained with crimson and full of dirt. They'd cleaned my right hand and called in a medic to put my finger in a splint, wiping the blood from my knuckles and putting band aids on them. I'd started crying at one point, but had forced myself to stop. I was never going to wallow in self-pity while my soul bore this black stain. But my cheeks bore slight tear tracks, and I could feel my throat grow thick with more of them.

"What happened?" Sam asked.

I couldn't look at him, but I met his brother's gaze, trying to tell him with my eyes that Sam needed to leave. I wouldn't be able to talk about this with him in here. I think Dean understood, because he told Sam to give us a minute, almost forcing him from the room when he started to make a fuss.

Once the other hunter was gone I felt like I could relax a bit. That something about him that made the crazed me trust him made me feel comfortable, and I took a deep, steadying breath. "Now you're going to talk," Dean said, sitting back down after taking his jacket off. "And you're going to tell me everything."


	9. Stepped in It

Dean ran his hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. Whatever he had expected to hear in there; it certainly wasn't that. Sam tried to get his attention with a quizzical look, but Dean couldn't bring himself to look at his brother. He was still processing what Ripley had told him, however he knew one thing for certain—he would take the specifics of her story to his grave.

"We need to get her out of here," he told his brother once he had found his voice. "Deal with the locals, I need some air."

He went outside, leant against baby's door and took a few deep, shuddering breaths. He'd seen the photos and even a few of the victims in the flesh, and felt that there had to be something else in the mix. Ripley was a difficult one to place, quiet—although he suspected the reason for that was the fact that he intimidated her to the point where her thoughts stuttered—but not afraid to puff her chest out and give you a piece of her mind, he'd found. She was a little odd, always tailing him around the bunker, but again he thought there was more to it than just a Becky-type fixation. He was having a hard time accepting the sparrow of a girl could massacre all those people.

After a minute or two the station door opened and Sam came out, followed by the tiny Ripley. She was hugging herself, wincing whenever Sam tried to touch her. Dean opened the back door for her and she slid in, curling into a ball on the leather. Sam gave him another puzzled look, and he brushed it off, climbing in and pulling out, heading for the nearest motel. Once Sam had gotten them a room and they'd coaxed Ripley out of the car and inside to a bed Sam turned to Dean, who was still leaning against the hood of the Impala.

"What did she say in there?" He shook his head at his younger brother. "Dean, tell me what happened."

"I can't." Dean's throat was dry, and he took a shuddering breath to clear his mind. It didn't help.

"You're gonna have to give me something. What, was it a demon—was she possessed? I mean, there was sulphur at the diner so it is a possibility."

"No."

Sam gave him an incredulous look. "'No'? What the hell does that mean?"

"It means a demon didn't do it."

He popped the trunk and grabbed his bag, ignoring Sam's questions as he walked into the motel room. He chucked his things on the table by the room's window, turning to look at Ripley. She hadn't moved a single muscle since she'd sat down. He wrenched his tie away from his neck, shucked his jacket and tossed them aside, rolling up his sleeves. Just as he knelt down in front of her Sam came in, latching the door as he shut it.

"Ripley," Dean spoke in a soft voice, however he still caused her to jump violently. She had been worlds away, trying not to think of God knows what. "Why was there sulphur at the diner?"

Her bottom lip trembled and her breaths became rapid, her silent demeanour almost crumbling. "A…a d-d-demon…"

"What did the demon do, Ripley?" Her head snapped towards Sam, standing by the table.

Dean paused, seeing the fear in her eyes as she looked at his brother. He stood, drawing both their gazes as he rummaged through his things until he found an old silver bottle with an ornate cross engraved onto the surface. He held it out to her, and when she took it he heard Sam let out a little sigh of relief. Test one had been passed; she wasn't a shape-shifter.

The room grew tense as her slender fingers unscrewed the bottle's lid and tipped it, pouring some of the contents over her hand. Nothing. She wasn't possessed. Dean took the bottle back from her and put it away, noticing with a slight frown that the water seeping into the carpet had been turned pink. He cursed and rushed back to Ripley, taking her hands into his own. She shrieked and jumped when he made contact with her skin, trying to shake his hands away, however failing when he grabbed her wrists, forcing her to calm down. The thin wooden splint keeping her broken finger straight had snapped, and it had cut her finger pretty badly.

"Didn't that hurt?" Sam asked, grabbing some bandages and handing them to Dean. "Why didn't you say anything?"

For a brief moment, her eyes found the older brothers' and they simply stared at one other, Dean understanding the reason perfectly. It had been self-inflicted. Since she had done so much evil she was punishing herself. He finished wrapping up her finger, binding it to the one next to it to restrict mobility as a make-shift cast and stood, running a hand through his hair.

He knew Sam would probably catch on soon, if Ripley kept this act up. He couldn't think properly, he couldn't wrap his head around it right. She was so timid and just so…quiet. He didn't think she could have a monster inside of her. The Mark twinged on his arm and he grabbed it reflexively, the burning sensation prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. Sam raised an eyebrow, causing Dean to let go of his arm quickly. He scratched the back of his head, shaking away the chill creeping up on him.

"Hey, Sammy,"

"Yeah?"

"Flip you for the sofa?"

Dean expected not to sleep at all, and he wasn't disappointed. He lie wide awake, staring at the ceiling while willing his brain to forget some of the images from the police report. He sat up and rubbed the Mark lightly with his thumb, frowning to himself in the dark. A sudden restlessness overtook him, a desire to do _something_ just so he could exhaust himself and go to sleep. He slipped into the bathroom and leant on the basin, needing to move but not knowing where to, lights still off but his eyes accustomed to the darkness. He stretched, forced a yawn and laid himself back down on the couch, closing his eyes and trying to sleep. No matter how hard he tried, it avoided him.

 _He wouldn't think of the murders, the carnage Ripley left behind; bodies torn apart, blood everywhere, a man impaled in his truck by a metal pipe, a kid with his throat torn out, a teenager who worked at the diner with oil burns all over his hands from working in the kitchen, his head bashed in with a rock, or the fact that the blood was still fresh even as the police began to clean the evidence after it had been recorded, that there were still drips running down the counter from where a waitress had her skin gouged into so deeply that the muscles were visible. He wouldn't think about the itching sensation in his limbs whenever he thought about these sights, the fact that his hands wanted to grip something and slash and tear or the way that his stomach seemed to convulse inside him so vigorously it felt he could cough it up, that feeling urging him to shed blood, telling him to create some carnage of his own. He wouldn't think about this longing inside of him, something calling out for a weapon, something that felt like an ancient yearning for a blade so he could slice and rip and join Ripley next time she lost it._

He lurched upwards, panting heavily, his body drenched in sweat and shaking violently. For a few moments he was disorientated—the room wasn't supposed to be this light at some ungodly hour in the morning, was it?—until he realised he had managed to get a modicum of sleep and it was now morning.

Sam's bed was empty, made and his suit was laid out on the covers next to his bag. Ripley was sitting up, still in bed, her back resting against the head board staring vacantly into space.

"Morning." He yawned, standing and trying to stretch out some of the cramps in his back. "Where's Sam?" he asked, not really expecting a reply.

"Out for a run." Ripley was obviously a million miles away, lost in her head like she had been last night, but her words (despite being very quiet and said in the voice of someone distracted by their own thoughts) were clear, not a single sound stuttered.

He just stared at her, a little surprised to hear a clear sentence come from her without any anger behind it. There had to be something wrong, he thought, jokingly at first but after studying her more closely he really became to believe it. She looked very pale, her white skin making her reddish hair look extremely bright. Her eyes, with their mixture of green and grey were unfocused and flat, no emotion making the colours blaze. She seemed very fragile to him then, sitting in bed wearing one of Sam's shirts which was obviously more like a nightgown to her. His heart twinged again as her appearance reminded him of Charlie, and for a moment he wondered how their geeky sister was faring in Oz.

Slowly his mind tuned back into the present, and he noticed the dried blood smeared just under her jaw and down her neck. "Ripley," She didn't respond at first, and after calling her name a couple more times it seemed to register in her mind that she was being summoned. She blinked at him. "Go take a shower, wash the blood off and get clean. We'll go grab some breakfast and bring some coffee back for Sam." When she didn't move he clapped his hands to get her attention again and pointed to the bathroom forcefully like a parent scolding a child. " _Now_. Don't make me tell you again."

She slipped out of bed and into the bathroom, and he only relaxed when he heard the water running. What was he going to do about her?


	10. Demon Sandwich

It took me a while before I could even think about sleeping. And when I did—begin to think about sleeping, that is—I didn't feel as if I had the right to sleep. A tiny little part of my brain kept reminding me that I took that privilege away from almost twenty people, that I should probably not allow myself to sleep for as long as possible.

But fatigue won out, and my eyes drifted shut without permission.

 _I couldn't control my hands as they grabbed up the knife, gripping it so hard that the hilt dug into my palm. Its silvery blade winked in the low light, and as I looked around I found I was in a warehouse, creaking and echoing as the wind howled around it. Without a conscious reason my heart began to beat faster than the pounding of a mare's hooves as the wind spooked her, blood thundered in my ears and roared behind my eyes. As the adrenaline kicked in I wondered what it is that made me so afraid, but as I strained to see into the shadows I knew I was alone. Well, I thought I was alone. The wind's pitch rose higher and higher until it was a woman's screams, so loud and piercing it forced me to my knees. "Wake up, my love," a terrible, grating voice cooed in my ear. "It's time for you to wake up now."_

With a cry my body lurched forwards, heart beating a million miles an hour in my chest, feeling like it was about to rip my ribcage clean open and fly away. My breaths came in short, ragged gasps and my clothes were drenched in sweat. A mumble came from beside me, and I jerked violently away until my brain registered the giant shoulders and back, the shaggy hair a dark shadow in the dim light. Sam murmured again and rolled onto his back, his mouth hanging open slightly. My body seemed to have a will of its own, relaxing slightly as my eyes sought out Dean. In the dead quiet of the crack of dawn I could hear his deep breaths from the other side of the couch, his feet twitching slightly in their socks as they hung over the arm.

I knew I couldn't get back to sleep now, and as I remembered the horrors of the previous night I grew completely still, self-loathing and despair washing my nightmare away like acid, leaving me hollow. I don't remember what time Sam woke, or if the sun had risen yet, and my mind barely registered him throwing on clothes suited for exercise and leaving his suit on his bed. He might have bade me good morning before he left, and I might have replied, but who's to know for sure? I scarcely remember Dean waking, and I honestly don't know if he asked me anything. His voice was just a low buzz in the back of my mind, until I detected a note of anger—or was it annoyance?—and I was slowly brought back to the present. I blinked, my eyes focusing on Dean, watching his lips shape words. When I didn't move he made an angry gesture and pointed towards the bathroom. I didn't take in his words but I understood, and I slipped off the bed and slowly shuffled into the smaller room, locking the door's latch and turning the hot water on in the shower. I stripped off and allowed the pure hot water to stab at my skin, making me gasp in shock as I was pulled out of my slump.

With life forced into my limbs I jumped to one side of the shower and twisted the cold tap, letting out a sigh of relief when I tested the water and found it bearable. My heart began to beat a little steadier and my hands didn't seem to shake as much as I washed the grime from my skin, (and maybe chipped a smidge off of my soul, too) turning the water slightly pink as it swirled around the drain, the last of the blood dribbling away. When I felt I was clean enough I changed back into the shirt I'd borrowed from Sam and my jeans, ignoring the red-almost brown stains on them.

I forced myself to look in the mirror. My hair was a short tangled mess, dark circles festered under my eyes like a bad fungus, my cheeks looked a little swallower and I felt I looked as if I'd aged two years overnight. My lips were chapped and chewed, when I ran my tongue over my teeth I swear there was a layer of fuzz coating them. I swallowed with a little difficulty, and tried to work some of the knots from my hair. I used my finger as a toothbrush and rubbed my teeth until I was satisfied that they no longer felt as if they were covered in tribbles. Once I'd finished I stared at myself again, and felt a little more confident. It had seemed to me that I'd looked different, like I had a demon crawling under my skin, but now that I was cleaner, I felt more human. Yes, I was a mass murderer. Yes, I was most likely a sociopath. Yes, these two notions terrified me (especially that last one). But no, I was not going to let that fear dominate me. No, I was not going to let that mass-murder define who I thought I was. There had to be more to the situation than I understood—that demon, Weasel, knew more than he had said—and a lot of what was happening was most definitely out of my control. I decided then and there in that dingy motel bathroom that I would uncover any and all secrets circling me. And I knew Crowley was the one I should ask. If 'ask' was the right verb to use for what I wanted to do to the king of Hell.

Dean had his back to me when I came out of the bathroom. He was changing into his suit, same dark grey slacks and crisp white shirt. He was just buttoning up his shirt as he turned, and I glimpsed a black mark over his heart. Even though it was just for a second, I recognised it. An anti-possession symbol. I met his eyes for a moment before looking away, my feet taking me to the foot of my bed. I sat. Dean didn't say a word. He just reached for his tie and began to tie it.

Eventually the silence grew thick and heavy, like a weight was settling in the room—the weight of an elephant, say—and as each moment passed it became more and more awkward to say anything. I silently wondered why American hunters got their anti-possession tattoos done so obviously over their hearts, unlike Australian hunters who had them done a little more discreetly on the soles of our feet, and if that made us the weird ones for being a little more practical. Soon Dean had finished lacing up his shoes and just stood, leaning against the back of the couch. There was something about the way he was perched there that made me think of a cat, more like a lion really, sizing up a wilder beast and waiting for his lioness to strike. It was the strength of his posture, but also the feeling of energy buzzing through him, just under the surface.

It reminded me of my mother, and the way she used to move on a hunt. Like she was the lioness to Dean's lion. And with that thought a shiver ran down my spine as I was completely weirded out.

"About the massacre…"

"D-don't." I held up a hand to stop whatever sympathy was about to come from him. I didn't want it.

He scoffed. "You don't want to think about it? Don't think you can fool me, Ripley. I know how you feel, I know how something like that _feels_ , and it's a weight in your chest not letting you breathe. I get it. I see it in my own eyes every time I look in the mirror. What I want to know is why a demon working for Abaddon is so interested in you. Hell, I want to know why the queen bitch _herself_ is interested in you. You need to tell us everything we need to know about you."

And I did. When Sam got back from his run I sat both of them down on the foot of each bed and began pacing in front of them. I told the brothers about my life, raised in Australia and Southeast Asia, Japan and even Europe for about half a year. I told them how my father had abandoned me when I was three and how five years ago my mother had died. There was nothing that made me special, nothing in my family's blood, nothing in my life that could explain it. There was a period of about ten days when I must have left Darwin and flown to somewhere in America, but I couldn't remember anything between my last hunt and the Winchesters finding me.

After I'd finished, Dean turned to his brother. "I think we should call Cas."

Sam paused, bit his lip and then shook his head. "Doesn't he kind of have a full plate at the moment?"

I'll admit their conversation had my interest. Finding out who Dean Winchester called when he had an unsolvable problem? Sign me up for _that_.

"Who else can we talk to about this, Sam? We can't go bothering Jodi with a mess that includes Crowley; she'll skin us alive. Charlie's in Oz—" (okay, wait… _what?_ ) "—so her incredible detective skills are out of reach. Everyone we can trust with an issue like this is either gone, or MIA. Cas is our only option." My heart might have broken a little when Dean said the word _gone_ , because he said it like he meant dead, and the thought that the Winchesters had no one to turn to with something of this magnitude save for one guy was just a little bit heartbreaking. It also made me feel incredibly guilty that I was the cause of that sadness.

"Okay, then tell me this. What is he going to do? The dude's been trying to lay low and keep his head. Do you really think he should risk it by coming here?"

Dean rubbed his neck, seemingly out of arguments. I could see Sam's logic, but if this Cas was as good as the brothers said…"C-call him." I said, earning an appreciative nod from Dean and a sigh from Sam. "If he r-r-really is as g-g-good as you say, w-we're g-going to n-n-need the h-help. If h-he c-can't help me, th-then I'll m-m-make a few l-l-long d-distance c-calls and s-s-see if an-nyone b-back home is a-a-able to h-help." The brothers shared a glance before Sam waved me over to the bed. I sat, a little confused. "W-what?"

"You remember how we told you about the angels, and how they fell?" I nodded. "Well, Cas was actually trying to stop all of that. The Scribe of God—an angel called Metatron—tricked Cas into doing the trials to expel the angels from Heaven, instead of closing the gates of Heaven like he'd believed. Since then, Cas had been trying to avoid the other angels as much as he can. See, it was his grace that Metatron used to complete the spell, so the others believe it was all Cas' fault."

"O-other a-angels?" At my question Sam smiled slightly. I'd caught that, and pieces were starting to fall together. "C-cas is an a-angel?"

"His name is Castiel, and he's been saving our asses for almost four or five years now. He started when he busted me from Hell and hasn't stopped since. Not that we take advantage of that." Dean added, smirking at his brother when he thought I wasn't looking.

The rustle of wings fluttered in my ears and all of a sudden, between one blink and the next, a scruffy man in a tan trench coat stood in the middle of the room. He had bright blue eyes that bore directly into mine, curious and aflame with power, messy black hair and was wearing a black suit under the coat. He looked like he was in his late thirties, and that he was probably an accountant or had a boring office job.

I, of course, began freaking out. Since when did middle-aged accountants just _appear_ in dingy motel rooms? In my experience—never—unless they were possessed. And since the only beings I'd ever encountered who liked to possess people were spectres and demons, I reached for the holy water on instinct. That is, until the man spoke and I was frozen in place, half way to Dean's duffel to grab his silver flask. The man didn't look at the brothers, but his words were obviously directed at them. There was something captivating about his gaze that I couldn't quite understand, and I felt something ache within me to grab a knife from Dean and peel his skin back to see what was underneath. I couldn't make myself actually listen, as if my ears suddenly stopped working, and that really concerned some small part of myself, a little voice in the back of my mind telling me that something was deeply, deeply wrong.

But I didn't care. I couldn't care. I couldn't care that Sam was looking at me strangely, that the man's curious gaze had turned into a concerned frown, that Dean's voice was a buzz in the back of my head asking if anything was wrong. Because I was finally understanding what I was seeing in the shaggy man's eyes, why I was so entranced.

Power.

Raw and beautiful, contained only by his strength of will. If he hadn't been wearing a human I felt as if I would be evaporated by it, white and blue, cold like ice but hotter than a star at the same time. It filled the human's skin, brimming and boiling through it, the light arcing like rays of pure sunlight, blinding yet gorgeous. It wasn't like the power of a demon, which seeped into whatever it could and rotted it from the inside out. This was soft and healing.

I found myself following the arcs of power as they radiated from his pale skin, fizzing through the room. Tendrils of white light began snaking around me as the man—sorry, angel—studied me, his power helping him gauge what was in my soul.

Dean looked at his brother, then to Castiel and then to me. "Cas, what is it?" Sam rose from his seat on the bed and moved so that he was now kneeling in front of me. I was staring at one spark of white hovering between myself and the angel. The effect it had on me was hypnotic. I felt myself submerged in white light, and then I was surrounded by it completely, and soon I felt like I was drowning in it.

I don't know how I ended up laying at the head of the bed, but the next thing I knew Dean's concerned frown was hovering over me as my eyes fluttered open. A gruff voice called Dean's name and my body lurched upwards of its own accord, forcing Dean to lean back or get smacked in the face by my forehead.

"W-who? H-how?"

"She has a speech impediment? Why?"

There was a scoff next to me. "What, I look like a doctor to you? How the hell are we supposed to know why she's got a stutter?" Dean was sitting beside me on the bed, white shirt stretched over his shoulders which were taught with worry. Sam was sitting at the table in his navy suit, laptop open in front of him, the angel sitting across from him studying a gun. Dean patted my leg. "You okay?"

I jumped at the contact but calmed when I met Dean's gaze. "I think." The words came out quietly, almost a whisper. The hunter nodded and rose from his position, grabbing up his jacket and shrugging it on. He began to discuss what B.S. story they were going to feed the local police with Sam. I don't know what it was but something inside me roiled when I looked over at the angel. His blue eyes moved from the gun and fixed me with a chilling stare, one that I couldn't determine the emotion of. Was that mistrust or hatred making the blue of his irises flame? Or was it just that angelic power that seemed so close to ripping through his skin? Yet another almost primal urge of wanting to cut into that man's flesh threatened to engulf my mind in bloodlust at the smallest hint of white light. It _needed_ to be snuffed out, torn apart, gouged from his soul.

Dean announced that he and Sam were going to talk to the police again and would bring me breakfast, at that I wasn't to go anywhere lest anyone see me. When they'd gone Castiel stood, walked a few steps towards the bed where I was sitting and then seemed to think better of approaching any further and stopped in the middle of the room.

"Your name is Ripley Mitchell?" He asked. I nodded. "Your mother was a hunter?" Another nod, followed by the narrowing of his eyes. "How did you get to this country, Ripley?"

I felt my gut drop like I was on a rollercoaster and it was just about to fall down that one crazy decline that no sane person ever thinks to exclude from the design plans. There was something in his tone I couldn't place, and it scared me. So I stammered my way through the explanation that, after my last case in middle-of-nowhere Western Australia, there was a period of about ten days during which I had no memory and had somehow travelled halfway around the world. As far as I'd known, I'd gone from sweat, heat and dust to tearing a demon apart while Crowley stood by.

"This is just my opinion," he said, a slight frown making its way onto his face. "And I guess it's okay for me to say since Dean is always telling me not to keep so much to myself; you should not be around the Winchesters. I'm sensing in you the same changes that the Mark of Cain is enacting within Dean. If they find this out I know they will both go to the ends of the earth to try to save you, as Sam feels he should be doing with Dean, but I don't know if it is possible for either of you. It is the oldest curse I know of, Ripley, and although you do not possess it physically, I can sense it on your soul."

Well, shit.

I knew Castiel was just trying to protect the boys—and don't get me wrong, that was absolutely fine by me—I didn't fancy ripping Sam limb from limb or shoving a knife into Dean's skull, but I knew if I left by my own means they would end up finding me again, probably surrounded by gore and death and that wasn't an experience I wanted to repeat, like, ever. Which meant I had to get a little help.

"C-can y-you h-h-help m-me leave?" The angel didn't mind the question since he knew what I was asking him to do, but he shook his head solemnly, explaining that somehow Dean knew when he wasn't telling the truth and he couldn't lie to them—again. "B-but if you d-dr-drop me on th-the other s-side of the c-country, it g-gives me a h-head s-s-start. B-b-better yet, y-you could t-take me b-back to P-Perth, in Aust-tralia. I'm n-not that i-import-tant to the W-Winchesters, s-so they w-won't t-try t-to find m-me."

Once again Castiel shook his head. I was starting to lose my patience with him. If he couldn't help me out, what use was he?

"Th-then let a d-demon find me, and I w-will take it f-from there." I was probably crazy. How could I trust a demon to take me where I wanted to go? My best options were intimidation and torture…pretty much anything short of a deal, which was my absolute last resort. Castiel clicked his fingers and the door to the room swung open, and I walked outside, throwing my hoodie on as I went.

A crossroads. That's all I had to find, and the rest would sort itself out.

He stared into those bright blue eyes, searching for a sliver of a lie. "You let her just _walk away_? What were you thinking? She's a time bomb about to explode!" There was this irrational anger boiling inside his chest making it hard to see his way to reason. It wasn't all on the angel—he should have made Sam stay behind and keep an eye on Ripley, or he could have stayed under the pretence of looking for Abaddon, _something_ to make sure she stayed put.

Sam shot his brother a look. "Come on, Dean, Cas didn't know the extent of it. He's got his own troubles, remember?"

"Dean," Cas said, an apology obvious in his tone. "She doesn't want to hurt either of you. She knows most of her capabilities, but Ripley also understands there is a part of her which is much too dark and uncontrollable."

He knew what Cas was saying. And there was a hint in his voice too, about the Mark. "You shouldn't have let her go."

"It's not like he didn't try to talk her out of it, right, Cas?" Dean watched the angel carefully, catching the little intake of air just before he began telling the younger Winchester that yes, he had tried to stop Ripley from leaving by trying to reason with her, but it hadn't worked. Dean waited until he was halfway into the lie before he cut in, the realisation a stab in the side.

"You told her to go, didn't you?"

The room fell into silence. Dean knew Cas had lied to them before, but that was a massive fate-of-the-world lie whilst this was trivial in comparison. He'd had enough practise finding a person's tell—those tiny, usually unnoticeable gestures most people miss—that he had to learn to see out of necessity, and angels were no different. Most weren't skilled liars (Cas included) because it wasn't really in their nature, so he'd learnt to find Cas' and had tried to call him out on his lies as often as he could.

"Dean, I—"

"Dammit, Cas! We're supposed to be protecting her—helping her figure this out! She's out there alone, unprotected and unable to stop Crowley or Abaddon from getting their claws into her. No Sam, shut up. You screwed up, Cas. She slaughtered twenty people in the diner up the road. No weapons, no demons, just her. Now what do you think the demons are going to do when they get hold of her?"

The three men were still for about a second, and then they sprang into action. The boys gathered their stuff and set up a rendezvous with Cas before running out to the Impala. The angel pretended to fly away, but when the Winchesters had gone he walked calmly from the motel room.

In all my life I never had to summon a demon when at a crossroads. I would just stand in the exact middle of the intersection and one would just appear. This time was no different.

She was beautiful, with a type of elegance about her that suited the forties or fifties, yet she was no older than thirty five. Her hair was curled and a shade of red lighter than mine, and there was something about her that reminded me of…well, me. Her lips were painted red, the makeup around her eyes dark and edgy. I knew she was a demon not by the complete blackness of her eyes, but because of the dangerous way her lips twisted into a smirk, the knowing hint in her expression putting me on guard.

"Hello, Ripley darling."

As soon as she spoke I was transported back to my childhood, sitting on the warm lap of my mother, giggling as she tickled my nose. With a squeal I would dart away, and she would chase me, crooning "Ripley darling, where are you?" as I hid under a bed or behind the lounge. It couldn't be…she was dead. Wasn't she?

And yet, as I stared into the face of this demon's meat suit I couldn't help but see the similarities in appearance. The woman obviously wasn't my mother—I would have been having a serious mental breakdown had that been the case—but the reality that the demon possessing her _was_ my mother kind of took a while to sink in.

"You're…a demon? My own _mother_ is a bloody demon, and I never knew?" By the smug smile on her face I knew my assumption was correct. But that didn't stop my anger from bubbling away inside my chest until it felt like it was about to burst, which it did. "You raised me to be a hunter, to despise evil, did you really think this whole reveal through? I was nineteen—barely an adult—and you left me to what, murder innocents? Kill babies and rip out people's throats?"

Her eyes turned to their normal colour, a startling green, very similar to my own. It made me furious. She smirked. "From what I hear, that's _your_ job."

My stomach sank through the ground. "Y-you know?"

"Oh, honey," Her laugh was melodic and charming just like it had been for those years when it was still easy for her to smile, but now I knew better. "Weasel saw everything, and I have a way of seeing what he does. I'm so proud of you." She reached out to stroke my face, but I slapped her hand away and as I took a step backwards I stumbled, falling flat on my back in the dirt.

I pulled myself up into a sitting position slowly, the demon's eyes locked onto mine. "Y-you're Abaddon." She smiled and nodded, and everything the Winchesters had told me about her suddenly came rushing back. Knight of Hell. Chopped apart and burnt to a crisp and still here. Something told me I was screwed. It was also telling me I was a complete idiot for not telling at least Castiel, if not the brothers, where I had gone. Then, in a moment of quiet in my mind, I remembered the reason I had come out here in the first place. I wanted answers, and to hopefully stop ripping innocents apart.

"So, sweetie, why have you decided to summon a demon?" For a second I balked at the uncanny question until I mentally slapped myself. _Duh—demon. She's reading your thoughts._

I think it may have been the fact that it was my own mother I'd ended up summoning that was unnerving me, and the overall weirdness of the whole situation; but despite this I still wanted my answers, I still wanted to be away from people I could hurt. A feeling in my gut told me staying isolated wasn't going to happen, so I figured I should just take what I could get.

With my initial shock and anger slowly seeping away through my feet my stutter quickly returned, which, for some reason, made the demon's lips twitch and quirk into a smile. "I-I want to know wh-what's happening t-to me. Why I'm k-k-killing and l-losing cont-trol."

"Well, if that's all you ever wanted to know, love, you should have stuck with those two idiot friends of yours; they'd have eventually found answers." As soon as I heard the smooth British accent I had to suppress a groan.

Somehow, Crowley just managed to show up wherever I didn't want him to.

My reaction, however, was nothing compared to Abaddon's. Because I was facing her I didn't see him materialise, but the knight's hands tensed by her sides and her face contorted into the epitome of barely controlled rage almost unnoticeably; if I hadn't already been trying to gauge her sincerity I would have completely missed the minute narrowing of her eyes and twitch of the corner of her red lips.

I slowly turned to look at Crowley, frowning when he met my gaze. The last I had seen of him, he'd been slumped in the back of the Impala at the mercy of the Winchesters, and all of a sudden he was free. I didn't know what exactly his relationship with the brothers was, but obviously it was extremely complicated.

Abaddon's silky voice was strained as she spoke. "Crowley. What an unpleasant surprise. What do you want?"

"Just a chat with little Ripley here. I wanted to ask her about a certain mutual acquaintance."

The tension between them was electric and as they continued to size one another up I felt that if I didn't get away from these two I was going to get caught in some very unpleasant crossfire. Slowly and hopefully not very noticeably, I tried to edge my way over to the side of the road, my hand slipping into my jacket pocket and closing around my phone. Sam had given me both his and his brother's numbers for urgent calls, so I tried to supress the look of panic on my face as I struggled to remember which speed dial numbers was theirs. Thankfully neither demon was interested in me for the moment; both gradually moving closer to the other and drawing blades from under their coats.

I peeked into my pocket at the bright screen and almost sighed when I pressed the call button, putting it on speaker a couple of seconds after the call had connected.


	11. Mummy Dearest?

"Could she have gone back into town?"

Dean glanced over at his brother whilst also trying to keep them from swerving off the road. "No," he racked his mind trying to think where she might have gone. "Somehow going back doesn't seem like something she would do."

There were minutes of silence; Sam scouring a map of Lebanon and the surrounding woods until finally he folded the paper. "How would you know what Ripley would do?"

"What? Oh, I don't."

"Then why would you say—"

"Dude seriously! I'm just guessing. Think, what are her options?" Dean didn't dare look at his brother. He didn't want to explain the throbbing building in the muscles of his arm, telling him where she was. He couldn't think about what that meant, at least not right now. "Before she—before the diner incident she was trying to make her way out of town, right? And if Cas wouldn't help her leave, and she was on foot…"

"She wouldn't have tried to hitchhike," Sam finished the thought, both of them slowly reaching the same conclusion. "But she doesn't have anything with her to summon one."

Dean scoffed. "Seriously, Sammy? She slaughtered twenty people, not to mention the King of Hell and Abaddon herself are interested in her. Any demon worth their salt will be trying to track her down."

"That joke was mildly inappropriate, Dean." The boys jumped out of their skins, the tyres squealing on the road as Dean lost his composure.

"What the hell, man? Maybe give us a call or a heads up before you just pop in like that, huh?" While Cas apologised and Sam filled the angel in on what the boys had figured out, Dean felt a sharp pull on his arm, like someone had dug a hook into his skin and was trying to pull him away. It took everything he had to stop his hands from shaking and keep the car driving straight. He backed off the gas a bit and tried to tune into the conversation, but the pain was too much. He pulled over, the ringing in his ears blocking out the concerned voices of his companions.

He stumbled out of the car, falling to his knees in the dirt. He felt someone's hands gripping his shoulders, forcing him to look up. The sunlight stung his eyes. He thought he heard Sam and Cas talking, but all he made out was "Let's get him in the back seat" before he blacked out.

"Dean…Dean, wake up." Someone was shaking him by the arm, and quicker than he could open his eyes he found himself gripping their wrist tightly. He blinked away grogginess, staring into a pair of bright blue eyes. "You can…let go of my hand now." For a few confusing moments Dean had no idea where he was or how long he'd been unconscious for, but as he looked around he saw midday sun and lots of forest.

"Did you find her?"

Castiel shook his head, a small frown creasing his brow. "She called you, and Sam answered. He has been listening to her for a few minutes now."

His body felt rusted and disused as he sat up, cracking his neck and stretching his arms once he'd gotten out of the car and walked to the bonnet, where Sam was sitting, Dean's phone to his ear.

"Hey man," Sam's words were hushed, like he didn't want his voice to carry. "Ripley put her phone on speaker. It sounds like Crowley and Abaddon both found her and are fighting it out." Cas joined the brothers then, and all three of them listened intently as Sam put his phone on speaker and turned the volume up has high as he could.

Crowley's voice crackled through the phone first. "—but I didn't intend to interrupt any mother-daughter time, it's just that a certain somebody is interested in having a quick chat with Ripper, here."

Abaddon's smooth but annoyed reply came from a distance, so it was almost too hard to hear. "Don't call her that. You won't be laughing when you find out what's causing all this trouble."

"Oh, sorry darling. But I don't really care." His voiced moved away then and gurgled, like he'd been punched in the throat. "I swear I'll give her right back. I just need her for two minutes—" There was a shout, someone screamed and then the call cut off. Dean was the first one to move.

He popped the trunk, grabbed an angel blade and Ruby's knife and turned to find Cas right behind him. "Can you find her?"

"Dean, I—"

"I don't want to hear it." His voice was a growl, the threat obvious in his tone. He would find Ripley, and save her. Anyone who got in his way—well—they wouldn't be in his way for long. "Can you find her and bring her to the bunker by the time we get back there or not?"

The angel hesitated. "Dean, she's dangerous. She has murdered people and sought out the demons of her own free will. I don't think it's a good idea."

"I agree with Cas," Sam said. "And did you hear Crowley? 'Mother-daughter time'? You don't seriously think that he was lying about Ripley being Abaddon's daughter? And if she really is…Dean are you sure you want to risk having her in the bunker again?"

He stared at his brother, then at the angel, not believing his ears. A wave of something he could only describe as the need to protect her washed over him, making the Mark burn. "Cas, _I've_ murdered people. _I've_ sought out demons before. This Mark…it's not doing anything good except for letting me kill Abaddon. Ripley can help. She can be bait or whatever, but we can't let Abaddon get her hands on Ripley again. Please, guys, help me."

Cas shook his head. "I won't." Sam crossed his arms and stood at Cas' shoulder, as if to agree with him.

Dean's pulse thundered in his ears. He couldn't see past his anger. "This is _your_ fault, Cas. You let her walk from that hotel room so her next victims are on your shoulders, man." He got into the car, turning the key probably a little rougher than he'd meant to. "Sam," he barked over his shoulder. "You either come with me right now and help me fix this or don't bother coming home."

There was a pause. He heard his brother walk to the passenger side and saw the puppy dog look as Sam leant down to talk through the window. "Don't do this, Dean. You don't even know where Crowley could have taken her."

His patience snapped, and without replying he revved the engine, forcing Sam to jump back or get knocked out by the Impala as it rumbled down the road.

One minute I was at the crossroads, trying not to get sliced apart by my mother or her apparent rival, and the next I was in a room with no doors or windows. Now don't get me wrong—I'm not claustrophobic—but I was feeling a serious amount of panic when I got my bearings.

The room was slightly rectangular and a decent size, a cold stone floor and walls made me think of a castle. However the odd thing came in form of the ceiling, which looked really modern; it was a smooth beige with several downlights set into it. There was a queen-size bed to my left, made in dark sheets that looked suspiciously like silk, its frame carved wood and quite grand. A bookshelf was set into the wall in front of me, but jars containing sludge-like liquids and various body parts sat upon the shelves rather than books. A metal cabinet stood against the wall next to the bookshelf, and when I tried it, it was locked. One disturbing feature of my new surroundings only sunk in once I'd checked out the rest of the room, rifling through the only desk's drawers for anything useful but finding nothing at all.

There were no windows or doors.

That's when the panic set in and I began clawing at the walls like a cat dissatisfied with its new home. I never did very well in confined spaces, and when I knew there were no exits it just made me worse.

"I wouldn't bother, darling," I whirled as soon as I heard the annoyingly smooth accent some time later (still trying to look for an escape), the gravelly words tinged with a sort of smugness that made me want to rip the small twitch of a smile off of his face. "The only way in or out is by demon-travel."

" _Where am I you piece of shit?_ " The words come out in a low, dangerous growl as I took a very slow, deliberate step towards the king of Hell. I'm suddenly reminded of those couple of weeks ago, coming to as I slaughtered that demon. Dean's uncontrollable anger as he attacked Crowley. The difference between then and now—I didn't have anyone to pull me off of him should I go postal—and I kept this thought in mind as I felt rather than caused my fingers to curl into fists by my sides.

"Hey, hey, whoa now," Crowley held his hands up in a gesture I suspected was meant to placate me, but somehow it only managed to enrage me further. "I've brought you here to keep you safe. To keep you away from _her_."

That shocked the anger out of me, instantly replacing it with suspicion. "H-how does this b-benefit y-you?"

The smile he shot me was sly and full of cheek, and he didn't answer me for a while, instead producing a black notebook from his coat pocket and a pen. He sat on the foot of the bed, making notes or doing whatever it was that was more important than answering my question, all the while humming under his breath and slowly annoying me. I stalked around the room time and time again, inspecting everything. The jars on the bookshelf were heavy and cold in my hands, a thick coat of dust marking where each one sat, and my sneezes were the only other sound in the room until finally, after what seemed like half a day, Crowley spoke.

"Do you know why you exist, Ripley?"

I jumped when I heard the voice right behind me, and I turned to look the King of Hell in the eye. "Y-you tell m-me."

He let a heavy breath out his nose. "To stop myself and the Winchesters. Abaddon wants the throne, and you're her snake in the henhouse, darling."

"I w-was born t-to f-foil your e-evil plan-ns?"

"She's been busy scheming, your mother. Guerrilla tactics and such." He waved a hand dismissively. "This was a contingency plan, some sure fire idea to throw a spanner into the works, as it were. And Ripley, love, you are one hell of a spanner." He let this sink in, and as I came to terms with what he was saying, I sort of wanted to vomit.

"W-what about the W-Winchesters?"

The King scoffed. "Squirrel and moose are a means to an end for me, much like how your mother is using _you_ , actually. I need Dean to use the Mark and his good friend the First Blade to permanently remove your mother from the mess that is currently Hell…" He continued to jabber on, but my ears began to ring and I completely tuned out.

 _The Mark._ As in, the Mark of Cain? The one that Castiel mentioned was changing me in the same way as Dean? The thing I've apparently got branded on my soul? Oh, well that's just great.

My breaths quickened, my heart felt like a small bird trapped by my ribcage. It seemed like my throat was about to leap from my neck, my stomach was being flipped like a pancake and my knees knocked together jarring my teeth as my mind processed what I'd heard.

What the hell has happened to my life?


	12. Bad Moon Rising

Days passed. Days turned into one week, and then two. And then it was exactly nineteen days and eleven hours since Ripley had disappeared.

Dean had let his brother drag him around on hunts and continue the search for Abaddon while he looked for her daughter; neither of them had any luck. Their hunts turned out to be busts, the red-headed Knight remained as elusive as ever and when Dean tried to call or summon Crowley there was no answer. His frustration grew and after the second day he began leaving various threats and colourful insults on the King's voicemail.

He made a habit of wandering around the Bunker like a ghost, feeling the cold tiles under his feet and the chilly air prickle at his bare arms. He had no idea why, but he often found himself in the rec room where he'd first spoken to Ripley, following the path she'd taken, running his fingers over the chips in the wooden chairs and tabletops. After a couple dozen laps, he'd then pour himself a drink.

It was on this nineteenth day in the unseemly hours of the morning when the world was still sleeping that Dean, beginning to sober and stumbling back to his room, felt the Mark tingle and begin to burn. He felt a pull, like someone sapping his strength through his arm; his knees buckled and he had just enough control over his body to clutch his gut like it was being ripped up by a hellhound and shout his brother's name. It was the first word he'd spoken in days, so his voice was hoarse and carried through the silence of the bunker.

The patter of running feet was quiet, and suddenly Sam was there, pulling him to his feet, both of them stumbling along the halls until they reached the library. The lights were already on, piles of books crowding the tabletops and crates of files stacked everywhere.

Sam lowered his brother into one of the leather reading chairs by the shelves, both of them staring glumly at the other in silence until his curiosity go the better of him and the younger Winchester asked what he'd been burning to ever since Dean had left him and Cas by the side of the road.

"So what happened?"

Dean simply blinked at him. He was about to ask _what do you mean?_ but he had a feeling his brother was talking about his most recent collapsing episode.

"I don't know man," He rubbed his head, pressing the heel of his hand into his temple in an effort to get it to stop throbbing. "One minute I'm walking along and the next I'm down for the count."

"And this has nothing to do with the Mark?"

"I don't even know anymore." Dean slumped in the chair, too drained to even contemplate lying to his brother. They tossed ideas and wild theories around for a few hours before Dean's eyes couldn't take it any longer and began closing of their own accord, his mind slowly slipping out of the conversation.

Next thing he knew, Sam was shaking him awake, the main lights glaring down and the smell of coffee enveloped him. He yawned and tried to glance at his watch, but his eyes weren't working properly yet.

"Dude, what time is it?"

"Seven thirty."

Dean groaned. "In the morning?" He struggled to his feet, stretching and not quite balanced. "Why did you wake me up at this delightful hour?"

"Cause," Sam said, practically throwing a cup of black liquid at his brother. "I found us a case. Nothing to do with our demon troubles, but it'll help us take our minds off—" there was a pause, like he was about to say her name. "—Crowley, and…all of that. We need to step back from that mess. Anyway, the town's a couple hour's drive and the crime scene'll still be fresh."

The black stuff in the cup was coffee, straight and bitter with nothing added to it, starting to go cold. eHHHderiokfgnhblrqnwfglk

He downed half the contents in two gulps. "Awesome," he said, yawning and wandering to his room. As he stumbled down the chilly halls he fingers brushed the Mark and it stung, like it was suddenly an actual burn on his skin. His head was down as he walked, concentrating on his arm, so he didn't even notice when he turned the wrong way and ended up in a room that wasn't his.

When he looked up he was standing in the doorway of the room they'd given to Ripley, the light off and the air growing heavy with his feelings of regret.

"Why can't I help you, Ripley Mitchell?" He asked the space quietly. He could have spent all the time in the world waiting for a reply and he would have been quite content to do so, if not for Sam's voice echoing down the halls reminding him to have a shower and pack a bag. Somehow he forced life into his legs and he stumbled to his room, barely seeing the clothes he threw into a duffel. When he stripped off and stood under the shower head it took him several minutes to realise that the water wasn't running.

Sam had to pound on the bathroom door to get him _out_ of the shower, and he spent way too long drying off and getting dressed. He put his shirt on backwards and didn't realise until he was standing in the garage waiting for his brother, and Sam pointed out the tag.

"Maybe I should drive?"

He didn't respond verbally, but tossed the keys to his brother and slumped in the passenger side. He knew, as Sam coaxed the engine to life and the Impala peeled out of the garage and down the road, turning left onto the highway, that he was burning to ask Dean more than what he'd hinted at last night. Like why he was defensive about Ripley, how he was so intuitive about her, almost like he knew her the same way he knew Sam, and why Dean was so protective of a girl they'd barely gotten to know over the past couple of weeks since they'd pulled her from an abandoned mansion stained in blood. He also knew there were more painful questions. Why had Dean let Sam come back to the bunker with him after Garth and the werewolves—lycanthropes—whatever, when he knew Sam didn't want to reconcile? Why didn't he trust Sam to help him with the Mark? And why did he want to leave Cas out of it all?

He tried to go through all the answers in his head, drawing blanks on more than he liked. The angel had almost been as unwilling to help when it came to Ripley as Sam had been coming back to the Bunker, which struck Dean as incredibly strange. No matter what the problem, Cas had always seemed to help as much as he could. But with this—with Ripley and Abaddon and the Mark—he was…if Dean didn't know any better he'd say reluctant, but that wasn't Cas' style. No, the angel was wary, Dean decided; his guard was up and he was trying to mask his concern the best he could by trying not to interfere. Nothing was ever that easy for the Winchesters and Cas, Dean knew that much.

"Hey… _hey_ , dude, earth to Dean? Did you hear me?"

Dean blinked, brought out of his reverie, not entirely sure where he was.

Sam was bent down and staring at him expectantly through the car's window, a shallow frown creasing his forehead. The Impala was parked in front of a motel, the room directly opposite the parking space had its door chocked open and Sam's bag was on the only visible bed. He'd been sitting in the same position for hours, and Dean found his back and knees clicked when he stood, something twinging in his neck as he rolled his shoulders.

He chucked his things on the bed, going straight for his suit without so much as a word to Sam, despite how concerned his brother must have been. Dean assumed the old F.B.I. routine would be the standard play until he saw the files Sammy had spread out on the table, the report describing the victim.

 _Injuries: Victim's skin is gouged and abdomen is 'torn' apart, bruising on wrists indicative of a struggle against assailant, additional bruising on neck accompanied by small cuts. (Possibly pinned down from above? Small cuts may be nail indentations.)_

 _Weapon: Knife, fingernails (unlikely), possibility of claws._

 _Assailant: Witness claims assailant was "not human"_

Dean's eyes kept coming back to _fingernails_ , remembering Ripley's victims at the diner. _Skin is gouged_.

"Hey Sam," he called, his brother poking his head out of the bathroom door at the sound of his name.

"Yeah?"

"Did you pick this case because the way the victim was killed?"

Sam frowned. "What d'ya mean?" Dean's eyes hadn't left the page until that moment, and his stare was steel, masking the fear he felt that Ripley had killed again.

"Do you think she killed this girl? Is that why you took this case?" He began forward, and as he did his brother stepped out of the bathroom, backing up a little as Dean advanced. He felt heat rising through his body; anger, fear, hatred and something else he couldn't really identify, but it let him square off to Sam.

He could see he'd put Sam on the defensive. "I picked this case because you needed a distraction, and it was the nearest one—hell—it was the _only_ one that seemed like our kind of gig."

"'Our kind of gig', huh?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "You know what I meant!"

"So all that about us not being brothers," Dean crossed his arms and stood firm. "Was that all crap? Because you suddenly care what happens to me again?"

"I'm _not_ starting this again. Now come on, are we hunting or not?"

They stared at each other in silence, each daring the other to take a swing, start yelling, do something violent. Minutes passed, and without warning Dean moved away, fishing his leather shoes out from the bottom of his rucksack. He glanced over, seeing the surprise on Sam's face as he began to dress. "You gonna get dressed or stand there like a chump all day?"

It was the standard routine, but there was an underlying tension between the brothers all day creating some awkward moments when people noticed, and Sam finally cracked, picking at the fresh scab while they sat in the local diner waiting for lunch.

"There's a lot we need to talk about, Dean," He began, (unsuccessfully) trying to get his older brother to look at him. "There's stuff I need to sort out if I'm ever going to trust you as my brother—"

"Oh look! My burger."

Dean proceeded to ignore Sam for the rest of the day. If he didn't want to be brothers, then Dean could play along for as long as Sammy wanted. He'd wait for him to sort all his shit out and then, before buying him several cases of beer, he'd sock him in the jaw for this tantrum. Not that that's all Dean thought this was—he knew it wasn't—but right now he was sore at Sam for putting him through all of this, just because he saved his little brother's life. Because that's what he'd always done, and that's why he tracked down Cain to get the First Blade and stop Abaddon. Everything boiled down to saving his family, his one giant Achilles' heel. Every bad guy they faced had to have gotten the memo by now. Zachariah had known it, all those years ago, and Crowley for a time there too (when he wasn't a complete wuss) had been quite cunning.

Turns out there actually was a case in town, with three people dead thrown in ditches and the latest one found under a Dumpster. And they were all torn apart.

"What could have the strength to do something like this?" Sam was sitting at their table, pictures of the victims spread out in front of him whilst families and couples were smiling and chatting around them, enjoying their meals and having a good time.

"I have no idea. Werewolf?" Dean placed their drinks on the patches of table not covered in gory photos.

"But none of the hearts were taken."

"Demon?" Sam was about to say no when Dean thought of something. "We didn't check for sulphur or EMF at any of the crime scenes. What about the toxicology reports for the victims?"

There was a shuffling of papers as Sam tried to find the right page. "Odd. There isn't a toxicology report."

"What?" Dean took a bite of his burger and used the opportunity to think. "Maybe one of the cops is our monster? Or someone in the M.E.'s office?"

For the remainder of the night the brothers ran through all the officers they'd met and seen and tried to narrow the list of suspects down. Nobody had acted unusual or suspicious around the boys that they'd noticed, at least. The case nagged at Dean, tugging at the back of his mind for hours. He found himself lying in bed, the clock ticking and ticking and ticking—suddenly it was half past one, then two forty five, then four ten and then, when he opened his eyes again—the sun was weak and watery, peaking through the curtains, a beam of light at the edge of the window edging towards his pillow. All night, one thought had wormed its way into his mind, an infected wound that was starting to fester.

 _The murders. They had to have been Ripley. There's no other explanation._

It was haunting. The image of sweet little Ripley, covered in blood and guts, as red as her hair, drowning in it. He might have been dreaming, or hallucinating from a lack of sleep, but it seemed so real that he was almost convinced it was true. Almost.

He heard Sam rise and move around, getting into his running gear and softly closing the door behind him. Once his brother was gone he sat up, yawning and stretching his arms, groaning at how heavy his limbs felt as he dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom, bracing against the basin. He looked up into his own face and saw massive black and purple circles, he seemed paler; hair dishevelled, cheeks gaunt and eyes sunken and small but at the same time almost bugging from their sockets. His shirt was sticky with sweat despite the cooler weather, and after he showered to freshen up a bit his stomach began complaining. So he threw on a jacket and left a note for Sam, promising coffee and possibly a bagel when he returned.

The sun had been up for maybe about an hour, and it wasn't doing a very good job at warming anything. Instead, dew slicked the concrete outside, the air bit at any exposed skin and the wind felt like he was being dipped in a room full of ghosts. He couldn't get into the Impala quick enough.

He found a roadside coffee stand and waited with the other customers in line like zombies, barely articulate and only able to form one syllable sentences. When his order was finished he unlocked the Impala and sat numbly, eating his bagel on autopilot and as he reached for his coffee the Mark twinged and stung. He simply stared at the spot on his jacket like the heat coursing through him could burn the cloth away, trying not to let the shaking in his hands grow. Dean could feel anger and hatred boiling inside his chest, eating away his lungs making his breath feel like fire. It was so intense it made his vison blur and ears ring; he scrunched his eyes until white static appeared, until the pain began to lessen and it felt like the muscles around his eyes weren't working properly—that his eyelids were too heavy to lift—until they snapped open. But what he was seeing wasn't the trees next to the coffee stand.

He was standing, back pressed against stone, a rope running behind the pillar leaving his hands tied. The room around him was dark and hot, moisture making the air feel like sludge. His clothes and hair were damp with sweat; it dripped from his hairline and off the red strands that fell into his eyes. _Wait…red hair? I don't have—_ that's when it clicked— _this is a vision. I'm seeing through Ripley's eyes._

He had to get as much information as he could before it faded.

Despite the lack of light through the room, Ripley could see vague shapes, looming shadows of other pillars, cabinets and cupboards scattered in the dark. Without warning the temperature spiked and then dropped to below freezing. Her body began shaking, teeth chattering as violent tremors wracked her limbs—like a seizure—but much worse. It lasted for so long that when heat began creeping back into the room her body barely even reacted, but Dean noticed.

"Well, well, well," Dean knew that voice; he could pinpoint it anywhere. Crowley stepped from the shadows with a gloating smile on his face, his hands behind his back, his long coat slightly damp like he'd been out in rain. "How are we today?"

"Fuck you, Crowley."

She spat, pulling against her restraints. Hard. So hard, in fact, Dean felt the hot trickle of blood as the rope cut her wrist. How he hadn't noticed the pain before was confusing, almost like he was a step out of tune with her experience, but now that she was bleeding he could feel the sting of the still cool air. Her emotions were a whirlpool of rage, annoyance, fear, curiosity, bloodlust and adrenalin all boiling away at the same time, making it really hard for Dean to concentrate on what was happening and being said.

"Now, now, love, mind your tone." Crowley was saying, and he pulled a wrapped package out from behind his back. A spark of recognition made Dean's heart stop for a moment. He knew the shape, he knew the pull on his arm and the same sensation was tingling through Ripley's entire body and soul; she craved it—no, more than that—she needed it like an addict who was on the verge of death without their next fix. Dean knew because he had nightmares about this yearning, which had started up when Magnus had forced him to hold the First Blade. It chipped away at her mind, breaking down her will. She didn't want to want it—she despised herself for needing to touch that blade, to hold it—she could feel the First Blade's power pulsing from the cloth bundle in Crowley's hands despite him standing on the other side of the room.

"Why am I here, Crowley?" She pulled against the rope again, with more urgency. Ripley didn't want to be there, near the Blade. She was afraid.

"I know you wanted to go home," The King mused, turning the weapon over in his hands. "But I had to be sure you weren't in league with your mother."

Her anger spiked. "Seriously, what the fuck? My friend needs me and you're keeping me here in case I'm going to go running back to the Supreme Bitch? Are you insane?" Dean noticed then that she hadn't been stuttering her way through sentences like she usually did, her voice clear and strong, her accent somewhere between Australian and English—something he'd only just noticed—and he began to wonder if it was linked in any way to the presence of the First Blade and the anger it seemed to manifest in them both. "Look, I get you can keep me here for as long as you want, but I really need to go. He needs my help!"

Dean felt there was something he was missing here, some vital piece of information that would have made the entire experience just a little less confusing. Ripley and the boys had been acquainted for just under a month now, and as he watched her struggle to persuade Crowley to let her go he realised just how little he actually knew about her. It would have been a great help if either Sam or himself had taken more of an interest in her life or gotten to know her better, instead of being solely focused on the case at hand.

As he watched her struggle he felt a strange emptiness in the pit of his stomach, and without warning he was back in his own body, staring at the woods, hand reaching for his coffee. He shook his head, as if to clear it of any lethargy and went to take a swig of the drink still sitting on the dashboard, but when his fingers brushed the cup he froze. The coffee was cold, beginning to chill along with the air inside the Impala, tremors started wracking his spine, moving through his bones to his fingertips. Teeth chattering, he forced life into his numb hands, almost dropping his phone more than once as he tried to unlock it. He had eighteen missed calls and about thirty texts from his brother.

 _Bring me back a bagel?_

 _How long does it take to get coffee?_

 _Dude where are you? Call me back._

 _DEAN._

 _DEAN._

 _PICK UP._

 _DUDE._

 _DEAN PICK UP._

 _ANSWER YOUR PHONE!_

 _SERIOUSLY OK, THIS IS NOT FUNNY._

He scrolled down, reading the worry in the texts and its increase as the hours dragged on. Sam's last message was a little over fifteen minutes ago, at midday, roughly four hours after he'd left for breakfast.

Dean took a couple of deep breaths, starting the car up and turning the heating on before heading back to the motel, and he'd barely pulled up when the door to the room flung open, revealing Sam, fury mixed with concern written all over his face. He stepped out of the room, holding his arms out in question as Dean got out of the Impala.

"What the hell, Dean? Where were you? I drove around for like an hour and searched the entire town!"

Drained, legs barely able to hold his weight, he stumbled into the room, collapsing onto his bed. "Did you do any work on the case?" It took everything he had not to fall asleep then and there. He had to squeeze his hands into fists and let his fingernails bite his palms to keep his eyes open.

"I talked to the victim's family—nothing out of the ordinary. Now are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?"

"No." Dean let the weight of his shoulders pull him backwards

"'No'?" All of a sudden Dean could see his brother's head looming over him. "What the fuck is going on with you? You're collapsing every five minutes—when you're not on edge and begging for a hunt—and then spacing out for hours on end! And you can't say this has nothing to do with the Mark because the whole ride here you were holding your arm like it was about to fly off if you let it go."

There it was, then. They'd finally reached it.

Boiling point.

Sam wouldn't just ignore it anymore, and now Dean couldn't brush it off or ignore it. As exhausted as he was, Dean knew he wouldn't be able to convince Sam to drop it until morning, he had no chance now.

So he forced his body upright—with a little help from his brother—and described the pulling sensation he'd been experiencing, the tugging at his soul, deep in his gut. He told Sam about the burning and fatigue, about the almost hypothermic vision and how he'd felt Ripley's pain and fear. He shared his insane theory which had begun forming slowly in the back of his mind ever since the vision; that somehow, the Mark was connecting him to Ripley, telling him where she was back in Lebanon, showing him where she was after she was kidnapped by Crowley.

After he'd said everything he could think of, he finally let his back thump onto the bed. He was so tired, he didn't even remember falling asleep.

* * *

 **NOTE**

 **Hi guys! it's my first time using this platform to upload my works so bear with me while i get the hang of it!**

 **This is all I've got so far, it's still getting to the juicy stuff ;) I'll upload each new chapter as i go, and if any of you have Wattpad you'll know i sometimes take a while to get my chapters finished and uploaded, so my bad in advance!**

 **Let me know what you think so far! :D**


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